


An Unexpected Snowfall & A Hot Cup of You

by siderealOtaku



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blushing, Bottom Hubert von Vestra, Coffee & Tea Dates, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Snow, Snow Day, Snowball Fights, Snowmen, Top Ferdinand von Aegir, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siderealOtaku/pseuds/siderealOtaku
Summary: Ferdinand von Aegir loves the snow. Hubert von Vestra isn't so sure, but perhaps he can be convinced.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52
Collections: Ferdibert Secret Santa 2020 Edition





	1. Prologue: Flakes

**Author's Note:**

> Belated Secret Santa gift for Kay, with the prompts "coffee & tea date" and "first snowfall". Hope you like it!

Garreg Mach Monastery was not a place known for snow. 

Certainly it _had_ snowed, at Garreg Mach, at some point in history - there was a gorgeous stained-glass window in one of the upper hallways depicting St. Cethleann frolicking in a winter wonderland, and Alois _insisted_ that the pond had frozen over more than once during his student dates. But in the years since the united forces of Empire, Kingdom and Alliance had taken Garreg Mach as their base of operations - and even during those fond, half-remembered student days - it had never snowed so much as a single flake. 

Which was to say, that a person leaving Garreg Mach early in the morning on a secret mission, with the intention of returning around midnight, would have no reason to plan for snow. 

So that person would have no need to chastise themselves when they _did_ return to the monastery, only to find it already well on its way to being buried under drifts of white. 

Even if that person was the type who prided himself on his preparedness at all times, he could not _possibly_ have prepared himself for this. 

This is what Hubert von Vestra _should_ have been telling himself, as he trudged through the deepening snow, the legs of his black pants and the soles of his black boots gradually becoming more and more soaked through. 

But Hubert von Vestra was not _just_ a man who prided himself on preparedness. He was someone whose entire _purpose_ was to prepare, to scout out the bloody path which Lady Edelgard - and now her allies from the Kingdom and Alliance - would follow, so that she would encounter as few obstacles as possible when she set her Imperial boots upon it. And he _had_ prepared for this mission - the "handling" of a local villager who had been discovered to be a spy for Those Who Slither in the Dark. That is to say, he had ensured that nobody had seen him when he left, that nobody but Lady Edelgard (and probably that blasted Riegan, who had spies _everywhere)_ knew where he was going. He had brought with him several healing potions, a backup tome should his primary spellbook sustain damage, and even a ring the Professor had purchased from that odd redheaded merchant that they _insisted_ would help him avoid being discovered. 

So Hubert had prepared for the mission. 

He just hadn't prepared for _snow.  
_

Now he slogs through the drifts, already nearly knee-high even for a man as tall as Hubert, muttering various curses under his breath. Hubert von Vestra is not a religious man, but he finds himself condemning the horrendous white sludge to wither beneath St. Cichol's most disapproving of gazes. (Not that he would ever admit to any other living being that he had spoken such a thing aloud.) 

He even considers casting a fire spell to make walking through the stuff easier, but it would almost certainly alert others in the monastery to his stealthy midnight return. Does he give himself this reason to avoid admitting how depleted the mission has left his reserves of magical power? Perhaps, but, regardless of the reason, the outcome is the same: Hubert cannot cast so much as a single spark to melt the surrounding snow. 

Hubert is cold, Hubert is wet, Hubert is grumpy and absolutely miserable - and even the bitter comfort he takes in the fact that he had kept his return secret evaporates as he sees a light flicker into quavering life in some second-story monastery window. 

The first snowfall of the year has stirred one other into wakefulness, and Hubert von Vestra is no longer alone.


	2. Chapter 1: Flurries

Ferdinand von Aegir loved the snow. 

If one was to be honest, Ferdinand von Aegir loved a _lot_ of things. His horse, a good strong cup of tea, receiving compliments, watching the Mittelfrank Opera Company perform, that warm flush of pride which suffused his chest each and every time he surpassed Edelgard in some small way. Ferdinand von Aegir was the sort of man who approached even the dullest and most frustrating parts of life with an energy as bright and vital as his internationally famous mane of vivid orange locks. So it made a great deal of sense that he would love something so commonly considered irritating or depressing, such as the snow. 

Hearing Ferdinand von Aegir talk about snow, listing all the ways in which it was wonderful to behold, all the hot drinks which tasted better on a snowy night, all the extremely enjoyable recreational activities which could only be enjoyed in such weather, a listener would think that the Adrestian noble was well-acquainted with winter storms. However, this was not the case. Aegir territory was located only slightly north of Enbarr, which itself lay in the absolute southern reaches of Fodlan, where the weather was quite temperate year-round. 

In fact, Ferdinand had seen snow only once before in his life, when his mother's declining health had forced his father to take him along on a business trip to the Kingdom of Faerghus. The snow had hit several leagues from their destination, and it had forced a grumpy Duke Aegir and a thrilled Ferdinand to spend three days in a small village until the roads could be cleared enough for them to progress further. While his father had passed those days yelling at the local men who were assigned to road-clearing duty, the innkeepers' three children had taught Ferdinand winter games while their parents kept his strength up with warm, hearty meals and several cups of tea each day. 

His love of winter weather thoroughly sparked by this fond memory, Ferdinand had spent probably too much time during his school days interrogating Blue Lions students about what snowy Faerghus winters were like. In truth, must of his knowledge came from stories shared by Sylvain, Annette, Mercedes, Ashe and, on one memorable occasion, even Felix (who had only agreed to talk in exchange for Ferdinand serving as his sparring partner for one entire exhausting week of bruises and aching bones.) 

In particular, he was quite attached to Mercedes' poetic statement that "the snow wrapped you in a silence so loud as to be deafening." (He had kissed her hand, thanked her genuinely for sharing such sweet words with him, and suggested that she take tea with Manuela, who had been seeking inspiration for a new aria she had planned to perform at the end-of-year ball. She had taken his suggestion, and _The Snow Queen_ was now called one of the Eternal Songstress's greatest triumphs.) He could not have imagined how a silence could possibly be loud - that was, until he awakes in the middle of the night not because of any noise, but because the monastery was quieter than he could ever remember it being. 

Ferdinand can't ear a thing. Not the stomping and whickering of horses in the stables, not the rattle of pots and pans as someone makes themselves a midnight snack in the dining hall, not even Caspar's foundation-shaking snoring. 

For a moment, he thinks that it is some sort of spell - had one of the mages _(Hubert?)_ sensed an attack coming and wrapped the entire monastery in a cloak of Silence? But no, he doesn't feel the tingle of magic on his skin. 

Ferdinand crosses to the window - and the breath leaves his body as his eyes behold a wonderland. 

Drifts of snow, as pure white as a pegasus' wings, cover every surface. Bushes, flowerbeds, even the tiny tables where he was so fond of taking tea, are all completely covered, transformed in just a few hours into indistinguishable lumps of white. The sliver of the fishing pond he can see from his window glitters silver, its usual blue expanse frozen solid and turned into a glittering mirror of ice. Frost patterns decorate the monastery's every window. The moon, itself as white as the snow on the ground, throws the ancient building's many turrets and gables into stark relief. The single other lit window - the library, where Linhardt or Lysithea is presumably drowsing over a tome - flickers with a cheery, reddish warmth so reminiscent of his favorite Southern Fruit tea blend. 

And in the middle of it all, trudging slowly with head hung down, fighting for each step through the knee-high snow, leaving a wavering zigzag of boot-prints in his wake, is a single black-haired figure wrapped in an equally black cloak. 

Ferdinand recognizes him instantly (he tells himself) not because that particular individual is frequently on his mind, but because any _sensible_ person would have removed his cloak the moment he realized that the trailing edges were quickly accumulating snow, only making it even harder to continue walking. Only one man he knew could possibly be so stubborn. 

_He looks so miserable..._

Ferdinand von Aegir and Hubert von Vestra are barely friends. Their new amity is a shaky one, a tiny sprout, as pale-green as Hubert's eyes, beginning to grow from the ashes of years of annoyance and snark, frustration and spite. They have had but a few civil conversations, although during the last one Hubert had surprised him by genuinely _complimenting_ him (and a pleased little shiver definitely does NOT run through Ferdinand as he remembers.) 

Disturbing Hubert in the middle of the night, when he's most likely returning from some mission Ferdinand _isn't_ supposed to know about - and already in a terrible mood, at that - can do no good for the tentative truce the two men have struck. 

And yet....and yet. 

By the Goddess, Hubert looked so _cold._


	3. Chapter 2: Drifts

At last, the monastery door looms before Hubert. It feels impossibly heavy against his palms, his gloves far too thin to keep out the bitter cold that has sunk into the ancient wood - he'd been forced to use the main door, as the side servants' entrance he typically preferred was thoroughly buried under a veritable _mountain_ of white. _Just a few more moments,_ Hubert tells himself. A few more moments, and he'd be back in the relative comfort (compared to the current state of the outdoors, at least) of his small bedchamber. Writing up a mission report for Lady Edelgard was, of course, his most immediate priority - but given his utterly ruined boots and cloak, he figured he could at least allow himself the time to change clothing before sitting down to write. 

_And perhaps a cup of coffee,_ Hubert thinks. It's far too late in the night for caffeine, but he doubts he'll get any sleep anyway - so he could grant himself that one indulgence. 

Thoughts of coffee fill his brain so thoroughly that the dark-haired man is convinced he can practically _smell_ it as he finally manages to get the monastery door open. Then he steps inside, and the smell hits him like an arrow to the chest, and he realizes that it _isn't_ just inside his head.

Because there, standing in the hallway, hair shining, grin impossibly chipper, holding out a steaming mug of what could only be black coffee in his tan-gloved hands, is none other than Ferdinand von Aegir. 

Hubert blinks. He blinks again. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. _How could his return to the monastery have been so quickly discovered? And by **von Aegir,** no less?   
_

Seeming to understand that Hubert's words have failed him, Ferdinand talks for him. "Goddess, Hubert, you look half frozen to death _._ Here, I've made you some coffee. Drink it, we'll get you warmed up in no time."

Mechanically, as though he is some sort of magically controlled puppet, Hubert reaches out and takes the cup from Ferdinand's hands, brings it to his lips, and drinks. He takes far too large of a sip, scalding his tongue as he does so. The coffee is black, just the way he loves it, and it's even made from his favorite dark-roasted beans. And it's _hot.  
_

It's...

"It's perfect." Hubert doesn't realize that he's spoken aloud until the words are out of his mouth. A moment later, he wishes to recall those words, the honest, frank vulnerability they'd contained...and then Ferdinand von Aegir smiles brighter than the sun, and Hubert no longer wants to take back what he'd said _at all.  
_

"I've made you an entire pot of coffee," Ferdinand admits, sounding almost shy. "I, er, couldn't figure out how to make just a cup, so there's quite a lot more. Shall we go to the kitchen? It's warm in there, and you're dripping wet. You can have some more coffee while you dry off."

Hubert should refuse. Really, he should. He should take the cup of coffee back to his room and drink it while writing up the mission report for Lady Edelgard. 

He should refuse, but he can't.

"Thank you, Ferdinand. That sounds...rather like what I need about now." The dark-haired man has to cut himself off before he accidentally says "perfect" again. He was starting to sound like the heroine in one of those romance novels Bernadetta wrote, for the Empire's sake!

"Excellent!" To Hubert's surprise, Ferdinand grabs his hand - the one not holding the coffee cup - and begins practically _dragging_ him through the monastery's halls. Hubert tells himself that Ferdinand just wants to get the two of them away from the freezing cold outdoors and to the warmth of the kitchen fires as soon as possible. That's _all._

The kitchen, just as the cavalier had promised, is comfortably warm. Someone - Ashe, perhaps, or Dedue - had begun to warm the vast ovens for the morning's baking, and someone else - presumably Ferdinand himself - had lit fires under a merrily whistling teakettle and the pot containing Hubert's coffee. Hubert removes his sodden black cape, draping it over one of the chairs nearest the lit oven before taking a seat himself.

Ferdinand - there's no other word Hubert can think of to describe it - Ferdinand _fusses,_ first rearranging Hubert's cape so that it faces the fire more directly, then refilling Hubert's cup of coffee, then pouring a cup of tea for himself before _finally_ taking a seat. Due to the necessity of staying near the warmth of the oven, he sits close to Hubert, their shoulders occasionally brushing as the two men slowly sip their hot drinks. Hubert insistently tells himself that the rush of warmth which seems to flow through his entire body from that single point of contact is simply a result of feeling gradually returning to his numbed limbs. 

For several moments, a surprisingly companionable silence stretches between the two men. They sip their drinks. The fire crackles. Hubert's body temperature gradually shifts from "dangerously cold" to simply "cold" and finally approaches "tolerable." Ferdinand winds a strand of long orange hair between his fingers absentmindedly, lost in thought. Hubert watches, more entranced than he will allow himself to admit. 

Finally, Ferdinand speaks: "Hubert...if I may be so forward as to ask..." (and for a moment the dark mage's heart skips a beat, because what sort of question would _Ferdinand von Aegir_ consider to be _forward)_ "...why _were_ you out so late in such weather, anyway?" 

Hubert mentally insists that he is merely annoyed because the question was one he had hoped to avoid answering, not saddened that Ferdinand's "forward" inquiry hadn't been something of a different nature. 

He briefly considers saying "Nothing," but while such an answer might deter someone like Caspar from prying further, he doubts Ferdinand will be satisfied with a mere deflection. "There was a bit of trouble in the nearby village. Lady Edelgard requested that I see to it." 

He had hoped that this would be enough for Ferdinand to let the subject drop. It was not to be so. "And you went _alone?_ But surely no minor scuffle or domestic disturbance would be enough for Her Majesty to send her closest advisor out in the middle of the night. Surely it was a matter of some importance, not to mention _danger._ But you did not bring your battalion with you? Or at least _backup -_ even if you didn't want to wake anyone, Linhardt or Lysithea are usually up at this hour, and I'm sure Jeritza is skulking around somewhere. I'm not even sure that man _sleeps._ "

Hubert takes a long sip of coffee, delaying his response as long as possible. He was unused to having such concern shown to him, and he was not quite sure what to say. 

Finally, he settles on: "It was a matter of...some delicacy Best handled alone.. But, er, thank you for your concern, Ferdinand." 

The smile this brings to von Aegir's face is sun-bright, stunning. Hubert finds that he cannot look at it for long. He casts around for a change of subject, and settles on that most banal of topics, the weather. 

"Perhaps it is for the best I went alone. At least nobody else had to suffer that horrid walk back through all that awful snow." As if to punctuate his point, Hubert knocks his boot against the base of the oven, shaking free a chunk of ice which had become lodged underneath the heel. 

The mage had expected silence at worst, or perhaps a smooth conversational transition accompanied by an expression of fellow-feeling regarding the irritatingly unexpected snowfall. Instead, to his surprise, Ferdinand's eyebrows furrow and his mouth falls open in a perfect little "O," an offended, scandalized expression Hubert remembers well from their days as classmates. It was the look Ferdinand used to wear whenever his dark-haired rival dared to intimate that House Aegir was anything other than perfectly exemplary and noble. 

"Why, Hubert...do you mean to say that you don't like snow?"

Hubert is, to be honest, a little taken aback at the severity of Ferdinand's reaction - so much so that he practically _stammers_ out his response. "O-of course I dislike it. It is cold and wet and makes it absolutely impossible to get anything important _done._ I don't think I know a single person who _likes_ it. Perhaps Felix Fraldarius - he always _did_ delight in being rather contrary." 

Silence again. Then, in a small voice, as if a confession: "I do." 

Hubert raises an eyebrow. Certainly he cannot have heard Ferdinand properly. "You....don't dislike the snow?"

Now the orange-haired noble draws back his shoulders and puffs up his chest, and, ah, _there_ is the confidence which Hubert finds so captivating, so difficult to look away from. "Why, Hubert," he says, and the angry-proud flush on his cheeks and the fervor in his voice is just so...so...so _Ferdinand_ of him. "I _love_ it!" 

This startles a laugh out of the dark mage - just a dry chuckle, but a laugh all the same. "Ferdinand, your lands lie just north of the Hresvelg holdings. I've familiarized myself with the meteorological records from the area - it hasn't snowed in Aegir territory since before your birth, excepting on the tops of the tallest mountains which separate your lands from those of House Nuvelle. How can you possibly love something you've never _experienced_?"

"I've experienced it!" Ferdinand insists, clasping Hubert's gloved hand in his own as though he is making a proclamation of utmost importance. "True, I have encountered snow in person but once, but I spent many a pleasant evening listening to stories of winter from our Faerghan comrades. Oh, the yarns Sylvain spun, the anecdotes Annette shared. And that was _more_ than enough to ignite a deep and abiding love for this finest of winter weather in my noble breast!" 

"Bah," the dark mage responds, glaring at the brick wall of the monastery kitchen as though his angry glare can penetrate through it and reach the still-falling flakes outside. "It has been many years since I called you a fool, Ferdinand, but I cannot _possibly_ think of any other word to describe you right now. Snow is miserable, and irritating, and far too cold, and worst of all _wet._ What could possibly be good about it?" 

"So many things!" Hubert feels his hand being clutched even tighter, as though Ferdinand plans to squeeze the life out of it. "The cold outside makes the crackling hearth fires and cozy quilts of one's bed feel even more lovely and warm than they usually do. It provides the opportunity to engage in so many unique leisure activities - there's snowball fights, making snow-men and snow-Cethleanns, ice skating, singing hymns to spread good cheer in the Goddess's name, roasting chestnuts over outdoor bonfires. And best of all, it's so...." 

Ferdinand trails off, catching himself, realizing that he had been seconds away from saying "romantic." "...Pleasant," he finishes lamely, the word falling heavily into the warm, coffee-scented air. 

Hubert snorts. It's childish, and he's instantly embarrassed. "I do not know what over half those things are," he admits, "but none of them sound like anything even remotely approaching 'pleasant.' " 

The Aegir noble stands, tugging at Hubert's arm where their hands are still linked together by his insistent grip. "That's _it,_ Hubert. Enough is enough. I bet you a week's worth of stable duty that I can convince you before this night ends that snow isn't nearly so terrible as you seem to think it is." 

The bet is absolutely ridiculous - it's exactly like the sort of petty arguments that had defined their interactions during their student days. But Hubert von Vestra has never _truly_ been able to say no to Ferdinand von Aegir, and the words leave his lips before he's truly aware of what he's saying. "Alright, then. Lead on, von Aegir." 

The answering smile on the other man's face is worth every bit of discomfort Hubert knows he is about to suffer through. 

"Wait there for a moment, then. We can't let you go back outside wearing _those_ wet clothes."


	4. Chapter 3: Blizzard

Hubert von Vestra is wearing a deep green sweater which is too broad in the shoulders and too short in the arms. The cape that has replaced his still-damp black one is a bright, blazing Adrestian red, almost as vibrant as Lady Edelgard's royal regalia. It is too short for someone of his height, and it hangs awkwardly halfway down his back. The scarf wrapped around his neck is one Bernadetta had knitted, and it is made of a thick wool dyed the same purple which the shy archer herself prefers. Only the black gloves are his own, as he always carries at least one spare pair on him and those had thankfully remained perfectly dry. 

It's _humiliating._ He feels _ridiculous.  
_

But the sweater and the cape are Ferdinand's, and they _smell_ like Ferdinand, and the man himself (clad in a much more flattering red sweater and rich golden scarf with metallic threads woven in, another Bernadetta creation) is grinning from ear to ear like he's having the best day of his life, standing out here in the snow with Hubert, and it's all worth it. 

"What have you got planned first, then?" Hubert asks. He crosses his arms over his chest - not because he feels cold, in fact the clothes Ferdinand had insisted he borrow are keeping him surprisingly warm, despite the fat flakes of snow which insistently continue to drift down from above. 

He hears a bright, bubbling laugh coming from the man beside him - was that a _giggle?_ He turns to see that Ferdinand has leaned down and gathered up a good-sized clump of snow, which he is carefully forming and patting with his strong, capable horseman's hands. He focuses intently, saying nothing until the clump has been formed into a rough approximation of a sphere. 

"Ferdinand...what is _that?"_ Hubert can see no possible purpose to the thing in the orange-haired man's hands. 

He looks up, that grin still on his face, a stray lock of orange hair falling over his cheek as it fights to escape the hasty braid he'd plaited it into before going outside. "It's a snowball, of course!" 

Yes. Of course. Snowball. Quite literally, a ball of snow. How could Hubert have thought anything else? "And...what do you _do_ with a snowball?" he prompts, when Ferdinand does not seem inclined to elaborate further. 

The grin on von Aegir's face narrows, becomes wicked. Hubert gulps as the bottom falls out of his stomach at the teasing promise of that look. 

The orange-haired noble's cheeks flush....

His eyes lid...

His mouth turns up at the corners...

He takes a step closer to Hubert...

...And flings the "snow ball" directly into the dark-haired mage's face. 

Hubert splutters. He has snow in his eyes, snow in his nostrils, snow clumping in the fringe of hair which hangs over one eye. He's even pretty sure that he's somehow managed to get snow in his _ears._ It's a thoroughly unpleasant experience - like all of the worst parts of his midnight trek back to the monastery, except carried out _deliberately._ For the life of him, Hubert cannot fathom how this could be anyone's idea of "fun."

He opens his mouth, spits out a wad of snow, and makes to say exactly that - and then he catches sight of Ferdinand. The Aegir noble is laughing, mouth open, head thrown back, braid streaming behind him like a flaming banner. He's not just letting out mere giggles now; his laugh is deep, full-throated. Freer than anything he's heard out of Ferdinand von Aegir's mouth since this damn war started. 

"Snowball fight!" the man cheers, and tosses another clump which Hubert hadn't even seen him gather up. This one hits the tall mage in the shoulder, leaving a pattern of ice crystals clinging to the purple wool of the scarf. 

Hubert can see some minimal practicality in the exercise - as a training simulation, perhaps, meant to strengthen one's ability to dodge projectile weapons without any real risk of injury. But it seems to be more some sort of game, meant for one-upping one's rival by covering them in as much snow as possible. 

He finds it unsurprising that someone like Felix or Dimitri had been the one to teach Ferdinand of these "snowball fights." His Lady's Faerghan allies are a competitive lot. 

He finds it significantly _more_ surprising how badly he wants to triumph over Ferdinand in this inane contest. If this is a game of rivals, after all, then who better to challenge one another than Hubert von Vestra and Ferdinand von Aegir? 

The mage sees Ferdinand eyeing his gloved hands, presumably keeping watch for any snowball-in-the-making. 

That is the cavalier's mistake - for Hubert von Vestra is not using his hands. 

The sparks of magic so thoroughly dampened by his mission and his long walk back to the monastery had been rekindled by the coffee, the warm clothing, and the relaxation, his internal fires beginning to glow as though the merrily crackling blazes within the kitchen ovens had set him alight in turn. Reaching for the magic which has been a part of him for as long as he can remember, Hubert levitates a clump of snow behind Ferdinand. Not bothering to form it into a ball, he instead releases the spell and dumps the clump of white directly on top of Ferdinand's head. 

The high-pitched squeal the man makes is somehow both earsplitting and endearing. "Hubie, that's _cheating,"_ he chides, using Dorothea's nickname for the mage seemingly without even realizing that he had done so. 

Hubert's own laugh answers Ferdinand's, lower and darker but no less filled with genuine joy. "You never indicated that this game had _rules_ other than 'hit your opponent with snow.'" He punctuated the statement by landing another clump of magically-assisted snow, this one colliding with his chest and dripping and sliding ungracefully down the front of his sweater. 

"Oh, von Vestra, it is _on_ ," Ferdinand practically _growls,_ his voice low and dangerous. No longer holding back, he launches two smaller snowballs - one in each hand- and hits Hubert with both, distracting the mage from the next levitation spell he had been preparing. Instead, Hubert redirects his efforts with an awkward sweep of his arm, his calculating mind switching from "attack" mode to "defense" as Ferdinand chases after him with yet more snowballs. 

His plan had been to use the snow to create a wall between himself and Ferdinand, which would be tall enough to deflect any of the white projectiles thrown his way. However, while his magic had begun to replenish itself, Hubert was still nowhere near full fighting strength - a fact which, for once, his calculating mind had neglected to account for. Instead of creating a snow wall as tall of himself, he only manages to drum up the power to build a small snowbank which reaches approximately as high as Ferdinand's knees. 

This means, of course, that the cavalier's next snowball is not blocked in the slightest, and that Hubert takes another hit directly to the face. It also means, however, that when Ferdinand steps forward to continue chasing Hubert, he trips over the snowbank, losing his balance and colliding with the gangly mage's chest. Hubert, unable to support the muscular Aegir's greater weight, is forced to stagger backwards. Despite his attempts to keep steady and prevent both of them from falling, his booted feet cannot get a grip on the slick, icy ground. 

Hubert von Vestra, the Emperor's Shadow, most feared assassin and spymaster in all of Fodlan, falls rather ungracefully backwards, landing squarely on his butt in the snow. 

And Ferdinand von Aegir, usually the pinnacle of grace and poise on the battlefield, falls on top of him, his arms bracketing Hubert's sides, his knees between Hubert's legs, and his head resting against Hubert's chest, almost _certainly_ able to hear the thunder of the mage's pulse as it speeds up at the realization of their awkward position.

Hubert looks at Ferdinand. Ferdinand looks at Hubert. Their lips are a breath away from each other, the puffs of cold air exiting their mouths mingling and merging. 

A beat, a silent moment, neither man moving, the next step clearly presenting itself but neither quite willing to take it -

-and then Ferdinand rolls over onto his back and begins flailing his arms and legs from side to side in a rather undignified manner. 

Hubert blinks in confusion, climbing to his feet, dusting the snow from his knees and chest, and trying desperately _not_ to feel disappointed at what had just almost-but-not-quite happened. 

"Von Aegir, what in the name of the Adrestian Eagle are you _doing?"_ the dark mage asks, utterly confounded. 

"M-making snow Cethleanns, of course!" Ferdinand stammers, the blush decorating his cheeks clearly no longer just from the cold. "I mean, that's why I got down here on the ground. To introduce you to another snow activity. Of course. And no other reason. None at _all,_ none _whatsoever_...."

"Snow... _what?"_

"Snow Cethleanns! It's mostly a children's activity - Ashe was the one who told me about it, he said that he used to make them all the time with his siblings when he was younger - but still plenty of fun. And simple, too!" 

Ferdinand leaps to his feet. The shape he's left in the snow looks like nothing more than...well, like a _Ferdinand_ shape, with clear, crisp imprints indicating the positioning of his braid, the deep grooves left by his boot-heels, and even the imprint of his hips. (Hubert most certainly does _not_ blush at that last one.) There's a bit of blurring around the sides where the cavalier had flailed his arms and legs back and forth, but Hubert can't for the life of him figure out what the shape has to do with Saint Cethleann. 

Hubert's snort of derision must have been louder than he had thought, because Ferdinand immediately looks ashamed, his cheeks flushing. "W-well, it's _supposed_ to resemble the divine shape Saint Cethleann takes when she reveals herself to her most devout followers." 

The dark mage can't help it. He lets out a snort of laughter. "That snow-shape no more resembles Saint Cethleann than Seteth resembles Saint Cichol," he remarks. 

Ferdinand seems to recover from his embarrassment and laughs alongside Hubert. "It looks like the shapes Linhardt leaves when he naps on a library table which hasn't been dusted." 

Now Hubert finds himself getting into this new game, finding it far more amusing than the making of the 'snow Cethleann' had been. "It resembles Flayn when she learns that the dining hall is serving fish." 

"Lorenz when someone catches him reciting poetry to himself in the mirror." 

"Hilda when she's assigned a chore." 

"Dimitri, when he got caught stealing cheese from the kitchens at night." 

"Sir Alois when someone doesn't get one of his jokes." 

"See, this _is_ fun!" Ferdinand declares triumphantly, pointing dramatically at Hubert. "You're _laughing._ You're _enjoying_ yourself in the snow!" 

Hubert folds his arms over his chest. "Because of the conversation, not because of the snow-balls or the snow-Cethleanns or the snow... _anything_ else," he insists, not yet ready to concede defeat, even though Ferdinand was telling the truth. The retainer _was_ enjoying himself, but he wasn't going to let Ferdinand gloat just yet. 

"Well, you must at least admit that you haven't _once_ complained about being cold since we've gotten out here." 

This, Hubert cannot deny. Although they're surrounded by snow, he no longer feels the chill of it. His surprisingly comfortable outfit, the fluffy scarf Bernadetta had knitted, the warmth in his muscles from the exertion and the near-constant blush from being so close to Ferdinand combine to keep the cold from seeping into his bones. He still wouldn't call snow one of his _favorite_ things, overall, the excursion is turning out rather pleasant. 

He allows the corner of his mouth to curl upwards in a smirk. "Alright, von Aegir. I enjoyed the 'snow Cethleanns,' if only because I got to witness you making an utter fool out of yourself, which is always amusing. I suppose you have further wintertime fun you wish to engage in with me before we return to the monastery?"

The redness on Ferdinand's face spreads to the tips of his ears - he hadn't missed the barely-veiled innuendo in Hubert's statement. Nonetheless, he draws himself up to his full height and grabs one of Hubert's gloved hands in both of his own. "Why, my dear friend, of course I do!"

As Hubert stands rather awkwardly, once again trying to discern exactly what it is Ferdinand is trying to do, the cavalier bends down and begins rolling up what seems to be yet another ball of snow.

"We've already done the snow-ball fight," Hubert reminds him, wondering if perhaps the cold has addled his companion's brains. See, he _knew_ there was nothing good about the snow!

"I know," Ferdinand responds, immediately erasing any worry that Hubert might have had about his possible loss of mental faculties. "These aren't snowballs. Well, I guess they _are,_ technically, but they're not for throwing. These balls are going to be a lot bigger." 

(And yes, the dark mage _does_ blush again, regardless of how _childish,_ how borderline _infantile,_ the particular thoughts currently racing through his brain are.) 

He's pulled from his less-than-proper reverie by Ferdinand sticking out his lip in a pout and placing gloved fists on his hips. "Come on, Hubert, _help_ me. There's no way they'll get big enough if you don't help me." 

The Emperor's advisor attempts to distract his brain by setting it to the rather simple task of helping Ferdinand with the whatever-it-is that he is currently doing. With the same voice he uses to command his battalion, Ferdinand brassily informs Hubert that his job is to create a _second_ ball, approximately the size of his own head. 

Embarrassingly, Hubert finds that the packing and rolling of snow does not come easily to him. The small snowballs had been easy enough, but the larger one quickly becomes unwieldy and threatens to fall apart with each handful of snow he packs on. By the time he has completed his goal, and successfully crafted a ball of the size Ferdinand had requested, the orange-haired man had produced _two_ balls, the smaller twice the size of Hubert's and the larger reaching nearly to his knees. 

_Well, Ferdinand always **has** been talented with his hands... _a traitorous part of Hubert's brain whispers. He finds that, the longer he spends in the snow, the harder it is to avoid the part of his brain that is pretty much constantly thinking about Ferdinand von Aegir. 

Bending his knees, Ferdinand lifts the medium-sized ball and places it on top of the largest one. Somehow, despite the many layers of clothing he wears, Hubert can see the rippling of his well-trained muscles as he carries the enormous amount of closely-packed snow seemingly without effort. Completely entranced by the display, the mage simply stands there stunned when Ferdinand takes the smallest ball from his gloved hands and places it on top of the pile. 

"It's a snowman!" the Aegir noble announces, his tone as enthusiastic as though he were describing one of Ignatz's paintings or Dorothea's operas. 

"A person. Made from snow." All right, Hubert can give him that - it's vaguely humanoid, despite lacking arms or legs or facial features. As with the earlier snowball fight, his thoughts turn immediately to training. He could see the "snowman" serving as a sort of temporary replacement for the standard dummy for those would-be knights who could not afford their own practice area, or perhaps those who were too young and simply wished to play at future knighthood.

But again, the use for the "snow man" is not nearly as practical as Hubert had surmised. "You decorate them," Ferdinand explains, "with sticks or leaves or scraps from the kitchen, to make them look like someone you know. It's usually a sort of method of teasing one's friends, although..." The flush decorating his cheeks deepens, "...Annette did confide to me that some youths fashion them to resemble their beaus and practice kis, erm.... _courting."_ Hubert smirks, figuring that Ferdinand had changed the word at the last moment to avoid sounding un-noble. As much as the man had grown and matured since their early days at the Academy, some things never changed. 

Ferdinand's explanation had made sense, but... "It does not look like anyone," the dark mage points out. "It is simply three balls of snow stacked on top of one another." 

"Have some imagination, Hubert!" Ferdinand bends over, retrieving a few sticks and broken branches from the base of a snow-covered tree. (Hubert clenches his eyes tightly shut for a brief moment. He hadn't been 'enjoying the view' as Ferdinand bent low. No. He hadn't even been _thinking_ about doing such a thing.) 

The cavalier places one branch on either side of the middle ball, forming a pair of crude arms. Two more sticks go on top of the thing's "head," while a pair of copper coins from Ferdinand's pockets are pressed into the snow to serve as eyes. One last stick, curving slightly upward, becomes a smirking mouth. 

"See." Ferdinand takes a step back, dusting powdered snow off his gloved hands. "It's Claude." 

Hubert can't help it. He laughs. He shouldn't be laughing. The lumpy "snow man" barely resembles the smug, suave leader of the Leicester Alliance. But somehow, the shiny coin-eyes that seem to wink at him, the smirk of the mouth, the Golden Deer antlers, serve to remind the dark mage rather uncannily of Claude. And the image is such a ridiculous one that he cannot help but place his own glove-clad palm over his mouth to stifle the fresh round of giggles which threaten to burst forth. 

Ferdinand is eyeing him eagerly, clearly awaiting Hubert's own contribution. The mage casts his gaze around for something to add. He sees a curl of near-white bark from a stately maple, and inspiration strikes. He presses the bark flat and uses it to cover the snow figure's eyes, creating a pale imitation of a mask.

He presents his creation to Ferdinand with a small bow. "Professor Jeritza." He does not say " _the Death Knight,"_ even though it's now an open secret among the allied armies. He does not want the specter of that reaper hovering grimly over this soft, fragile, perfect moment. 

"Brilliant, Hubert!" Ferdinand praises, and his compliments warm Hubert to the bone. Ferdinand picks up the "mask" and turns it over, revealing dark, greenish-black moss clinging to the other side. However, the cavalier forgets his own strength when he attempts to secure the mossy bark on top of no-longer-snow-Jeritza's head to serve as hair, and accidentally knocks the man's "head" to the ground, where it lolls awkwardly, now completely separated from the "body." 

"Aww." Ferdinand pouts. "I didn't mean to do that. I was trying to make Seteth." 

Hubert simply can't stand seeing that sad expression remain on Ferdinand's face for one moment longer. Quickly, he pushes the middle ball over as well, until the "man" who had once stood up straight and proud now appeared to be lying on his side in the snow. "See, it's Linhardt! He's fallen asleep because he mistook the snow for a pillow." 

To Hubert's extreme relief, that brings a smile and even a laugh back to Ferdinand's lips. "Linhardt _would_ fall asleep in the snow," he agrees. "We shall have to tell whoever has patrol duty tomorrow to keep an eye out before him. We can't have our army's best healer freezing to death." 

Hubert is thoroughly enjoying himself, far more than he had ever possibly imagined he could. However, he's still not fully recovered from the exhausting journey earlier, and the night is only growing colder as it goes on. As loath as he is to end this precious time alone with Ferdinand, he has to admit...

"Speaking of freezing to death, Ferdinand, I...I am afraid I must admit that the cold has gotten the better of me." 

Luckily, Ferdinand seems delighted, rather than annoyed. "Oh, of course! We shall simply have to adjourn until tomorrow. There's enough snow on the ground that it won't melt for at _least_ another day, if not several. Once we've both completed our duties, I can introduce you to more activities. We can light a fire and roast chestnuts, see if any of the merchants are selling skates we could use on the pond if it stays frozen, check the greenhouse for...." He trails off, catching himself, then quickly turns around and begins making his way back towards the monastery door. "Come along, Hubert, I can hear your teeth chattering from here." 

"Wait." Hubert is surprised to find himself grabbing Ferdinand's upper arm and pulling the taller man to a stop. He had just said he wanted to go in and get out of the cold, hadn't he? But he had to know what Ferdinand had been about to say. Somehow, he can just tell that it was going to be something more important than merely another suggestion of something fun they could do in the snow together.

"Ferdinand," he asks, his voice low and rich with intent, "what grows in the greenhouse?" 

The Aegir noble still does not turn to look at Hubert, but the mage can see the tips of his ears turn red. In a small, low voice, barely over a whisper, he says: "Goddess' locks." 

"Goddess' locks," Hubert repeats the name of the poisonous berry which had once grown in House Vestra's secret, deadly garden. Then, he calls it by its Faerghan title, remembering from his botanical studies that the plant was known in the Kingdom for something other than its toxic berries. 

"...Mistletoe." 

Ferdinand sounds rueful. "Of course, of all the winter traditions I've been talking about, _that_ had to be the one you'd heard of before." 

"My father insisted that I study the...practical uses...of plants when I was younger," Hubert responds, leaving it open for Ferdinand to change the subject should the cavalier wish to. (But oh, how Hubert hoped that he did _not_ wish to.) 

Hubert's wish comes true. Had he been a more religious man, he might have called it a miracle. "I believe Dedue grows a few sprigs in the corner of the greenhouse he and Ashe devote to Faerghan horticulture." 

Perhaps Hubert is brave. Perhaps Hubert is clever. Or perhaps Hubert is merely _extremely_ cold, and cannot bring himself to stay out in the bitter, frozen night much longer.

"I do not need to be standing beneath a mistletoe bough to do this." With one gloved hand, he gently guides Ferdinand's chin until the other man is facing him once again and leans in for a kiss as soft and sweet as the snowflakes still drifting around them. 

When they break apart, it is Ferdinand's turn to be bold: 

"My room is sure to be much warmer than your frigid little office. I've commandeered one of the old visitor's suites, and it's got a nice large fireplace."

Hubert licks his lips, savoring the taste he has only just sampled for the first time but is well on its way to replacing coffee as his new obsession. "Lead on, von Aegir."


	5. Chapter 4: Whiteout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild sexual content featured in this chapter

Hubert wants to devour Ferdinand whole as soon as they reach his room. 

Unfortunately, practicality must come first, as it always seems to do in Hubert's life. The room is frigid without a fire, and Ferdinand immediately squats over the hearth, determinedly tending to the spark of fire magic Hubert had been able to coax from his drained, trembling fingers. At least the cavalier had thought to stock his room with wood earlier, so neither man needs to sneak back to the kitchen to pilfer a few logs. 

The mage wraps himself in Ferdinand's thickest, fluffiest blanket, mentally thanking the Aegir noble's remaining attachment to a few small luxuries. He removes only the cape and scarf, telling himself that it has everything to do with the lingering chill in the room and absolutely _nothing_ to do with any insecurities he might have regarding his own physical form, particularly in comparison to Ferdinand's. 

All too soon - and yet not soon enough - the fire is crackling merrily in the hearth, and Ferdinand turns to face Hubert. The manner with which he strips off his own layers of clothing is businesslike, but the blush on his cheeks is a twin to Hubert's own. 

"Oh, pardon me, Hubert, where are my manners! I have not offered you anything to drink - I do keep a bag of coffee beans in my room, exactly for such a situation as this. Shall I brew you some - "

Hubert cuts him off, a surprising impatience - and something more - rising within his breast. "Come here, Ferdinand." 

And Ferdinand does. 

The orange-haired man tastes, predictably, of tea. He'd been drinking Albinean Pine Needle blend, perfect for the winter weather, and the taste is fresh and sharp. Ferdinand's tongue is inquisitive, insistent, treating every corner of Hubert's mouth as though it is worthy of not only exploring but worshiping. 

Strong hands slide underneath Hubert's sweater, leaving trails of warmth on the long, cold planes of his chest. "Let me warm you, von Vestra," Ferdinand whispers into his ear, and Hubert eagerly nods his agreement. 

Their sweaters crumple onto the floor. The scarves, Bernadetta's gifts, tangle together, mirroring the limbs of the two men embracing on the bed above. Shame still lurks in the back of Hubert's mind, but Ferdinand draws it forth, into the sweet, confident light that seems to exude from his very skin, and drives each insecurity away with soft kisses and tender touches. 

"You're beautiful," Ferdinand says simply. 

"You can't even see what I look like, von Aegir. We're both under the blanket," the mage points out. 

Ferdinand laughs, open and honest. "But I can feel you," he whispers against Hubert's shoulder blade, and then proceeds to use those talented, lance-callused fingers to prove exactly _what_ it is that he can feel. 

The few times Hubert has bothered to take his own pleasure over the past years have been rushed, nearly perfunctory, with little emotion involved and even less time taken to stop and enjoy what was happening. Ferdinand, however, will not let this moment end quickly. He touches Hubert lightly, those fingers brushing against his most sensitive parts with only the barest hint of pressure, not nearly enough to sate Hubert's needs. When the mage lets an undignified whine slip from his lips, the cavalier does not press forward, but rather beats a strategic retreat, returning instead to stroke Hubert's chest, pinch at a nipple or trail teasing tickles down each sensitive inner thigh. 

By the time the fire is truly roaring, the two men no longer need it. They create their own heat, cocooned within their nest of blankets, exploring and discovering each other's bodies for what will surely be only the first of many such nights spent warming one another. 

The oil which Ferdinand pulls from a bedside drawer is cold, distressingly so. Hubert had thought there was not a single drop of magic left in him, but he manages to summon enough heat in his hands to warm the oil as Ferdinand laughs and kisses along his scowling mouth.

When Ferdinand takes him, Hubert feels more than warm. He feels _safe._ He feels _protected._ Ferdinand's arms are bracketed around him, his hair hangs above him like a sheltering curtain. His lips are against Hubert's cheeks, eyelids, neck and he is _inside_ Hubert, and it does not feel like an intrusion or a breach but rather a _welcoming_. 

"Tell me, Hubert," Ferdinand whispers against his shoulder as he rocks into him, his voice surprisingly steady despite the pleasure building in both men. "What do you think of the snow? It's not so bad, isn't it?" 

"I...I must...admit it was..." Unlike Ferdinand, Hubert is barely able to string a few words together as he struggles to keep his composure. "It is not...nearly so bad as I had..." 

Then Ferdinand wraps his hand around Hubert, and the dark mage is unable to finish the sentence as his ecstasy reaches its peak. For a brief, glorious moment as Hubert finds his release, his vision turns even whiter than the blizzard raging outside.


	6. Epilogue: Diamond Dust

In the morning, an even thicker layer of snow covers the ground. The fire has burned low, and only a few glowing coals remain. 

Still, Hubert wakes up warm. 

They'd wrapped every blanket around themselves, even spreading a few of Ferdinand's capes on top of the messy yet comfortable pile. Hubert had slept the whole night wrapped in Ferdinand's arms, one of the cavalier's powerful legs hooked over his hip. 

He's so warm that he wakes long past his usual early-morning hour. Outside, he can hear the monastery already greeting the new day, the shouts of familiar voices indicating that his friends and fellow soldiers had woken to discover the glittering wonderland outside. 

Quietly, Hubert slips from the bed and walks to the window. On the snow-covered lawn, Felix and Ingrid are serving as captains for a massive snowball fight, soldiers from the Empire, Kingdom, and Alliance armies mingling equally on both teams. A bundled-up Dedue and Bernadetta are making their way to the greenhouse, while Raphael and Ignatz are watching over a crackling outdoor bonfire. The lake's frozen surface is crowded with skaters - he sees Flayn enthusiastically dragging Seteth, Annette showing off a spin, and even Lady Edelgard herself skating hand in hand with Dorothea. Linhardt, predictably, is napping - to Hubert's amusement, he dozes right next to the tipped-over snowman which bore his likeness. 

Later, there will be meetings, paperwork, battles to plan and supplies to inventory. But for now, the day is bright, the snow is sparkling, and what seems like everyone in the monastery is taking a few moments to play. 

"Mmgh....come back to bed, Hubert dear," Ferdinand murmurs sleepily. 

Hubert laughs, the open expression of joy and contentment coming more easily to him than it ever had before. "In a moment, perhaps. But get up first, Ferdinand. You've got to see this." 

Ferdinand _hmphs,_ but Hubert can hear the distinctive sound of him slowly untangling himself from the bedsheets. "Is there tea, at least?" 

"Always," Hubert says with a smile, pointing to the teakettle and the coffeepot whistling away beside one another, filling the room with their distinct yet complimentary scents. 

"Then I _suppose_ I could get up," he responds, coming to wrap his arms around Hubert's waist. 

The mage relaxes into his new lover's arms, closing his eyes and feeling at peace. It is a beautiful, snowy day at Garreg Mach Monastery, and Hubert von Vestra greets it with a smile. 


End file.
